i remember hearing, years ago, of an old merchant who, on his death-bed, divided the results of long years of labor, some few hundreds in all, amongst his sons. “it is little enough, my boys,” were almost his last words, “but there isn’t a dirty shilling in the whole of it.” he had been a successful man too, though not in the “self-made” sense. for his ideal had been, not to make money, but to keep clean hands. and he had been faithful to it.